


show a little skin, baby (i'm begging)

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Hands, M/M, Necks, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Apocalypse, Wrists, forearms, literally crowley freaking out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 23:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20665577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: Huffing at the inconvenience of it all, Aziraphale reached one hand to the cuff of his left sleeve and slipped the button through the hole, releasing the fabric so that Crowley could see the bone of his wrist.Crowley sucked in a breath.With deft fingers, Aziraphale folded back the cuff once. Oh that was arm hair, light blonde and soft. And then folded it again. The pale skin of his wrist. A final fold and Crowley could see the tension release in his forearm.He breathed out.**Or: 5 times Aziraphale accidentally shows a little skin, and one time he means to.





	show a little skin, baby (i'm begging)

**Author's Note:**

> this is sort of based on a tumblr post about crowley freaking out whenever aziraphale is even slightly undressed but i cant find the post to save my life

**1270**

Crowley was having the time of his life. Italy wasn’t his favorite place but putting beetles in the Papal palace? Great fun. The beetle infestation was the talk of the town and he loved hearing about it.

He was happily ruining people’s day by making them step in a puddle in the middle of the road when Aziraphale marched up to him, blustering.

“It was _ you, _ wasn’t it?” he said, face red and eyes blazing. He was dressed in ridiculous robes and a stupid hat that Crowley wanted to rip off his blonde head. 

Crowley pointed at himself innocently. “Me? What about me?”

“The beetles! I found three in my bed this morning and no one has been able to get rid of them. I know it’s your demonic work,” Aziraphale said, frowning something fierce.

“Doesn’t sound like me,” Crowley said shaking his head in pretend confusion. 

Aziraphale groaned. “You are infuriating. Get rid of the beetles or else!”

“Or else what? You’ll smite me?” Crowley said, leering at Aziraphale from where he sat on the bench.

“I’ll figure something out!” Aziraphale cried, turning on his heel and lifting his robes to step over the puddle. In that moment, Crowley saw the knob of his ankle bone under the hem of the thick fabric and his stomach flipped. He hadn't seen any part of Aziraphale besides his face and hands since...459 BC. He remembered that one because it had been the curve of his knee peeking out from the flap of his robe and with that knee a small bit of his thigh which had been dusted with blonde hair—

“Wait!” he said against his better judgment.

Aziraphale stopped. “What?”

“I’ll get rid of the beetles,” he grumbled.

Looking very pleased, Aziraphale said, “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“Shut up.”

**1529**

Aziraphale looked very at home in the fashion of the 16th century, the frills and the lace complimenting his bright nature. Gold tones were very in so Crowley looked despondently dark and broody in his preferred blacks. Not that he minded. It made people leave him alone.

Crowley handed Aziraphale a mug of ale and flopped across from him in the tavern. The angel looked very peaky. “Drink up,” Crowley said, tapping his mug against Aziraphale’s even though he was just staring down at it in his hands.

“Rough day?” Crowley asked after a few moments when Aziraphale continued to stare down the contents of his cup like he’d never seen ale before.

Blinking, Aziraphale turned his attention to Crowley and bit his lip. “I was reprimanded,” he confessed.

“By…” Crowley said, gesturing to the ceiling.

“Who else?” Aziraphale snapped and then he shut his eyes. “Sorry. It was just...very stressful.”

A drunk patron knocked over a plate and guffawed loudly. Aziraphale grimaced. “Could we maybe go somewhere else? Somewhere more private?”

Aziraphale decidedly did not mean what Crowley wanted him to mean. “Come back to mine?”

“Please,” Aziraphale said, looking relieved.

Crowley drained his cup. He liked this tavern because they had decent ale but if they went back to his, he supposed he could summon something even better. Or maybe Aziraphale could.

It was a short walk through the streets and up a flight of stairs to Crowley’s rooms. When Aziraphale wandered around the anteroom, surveying Crowley’s minimal belongings, he felt very vulnerable to let the angel see how he lived. Aziraphale gave him a small smile and leaned against the wall.

“I thought you’d live much more lavishly,” he said.

“I used to but it drew too much attention,” Crowley admitted, summoning some cups. Aziraphale stepped towards him, the movement accompanied by the sound of fabric tearing.

Horrified, Aziraphale froze. Crowley grimaced. 

Aziraphale turned and showed Crowley his back. “Is it very bad?”

The fabric of his doublet had pulled apart where an exposed nail had caught it and Aziraphale twisted to look at the damage with a devastated expression. “This has been an awful day.”

Crowley thought he would stamp his foot if it weren’t so utterly childish.

Fingers going to his chest, Aziraphale removed his jerkin and then popped one button open and then another and another and another. Crowley watched, transfixed, while Aziraphale slipped off the brocade doublet and held it up to the light. “Oh, it’s hardly salvageable. Do you think I could miracle it?”

Crowley gawped like a fish on a dock. Aziraphale rarely changed his clothes, only doing so when assignment or fashion absolutely demanded it. He'd never seen Aziraphale remove so much as a stitch and this...was indecent.

“If I did I’m sure it would just tear again. I’d hardly be able forget that the hole was _ there_.” Aziraphale heaved a very dramatic sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to replace it.”

The billow of Aziraphale’s linen shirt left little to the imagination and while Aziraphale mourned the loss of his doublet, Crowley mourned the presence of yet another layer that prevented him from seeing more of Aziraphale’s beautiful skin.

“I suppose I look a bit ridiculous,” Aziraphale said, catching his gaze. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Crowley said quickly. 

Aziraphale removed his ruffle which gave Crowley an unholy view of his throat. He had the sudden desire to lick it. 

Before Crowley could properly appreciate the view, Aziraphale miracled himself into an entirely new outfit. 

“What do you think?” Aziraphale asked, turning at the hips.

Still caught up in the sight of Aziraphale so underdressed, Crowley could only give an affirming nod.

He summoned the best wine he could imagine and they drank well into the night.

**1808**

Staring out over the ballroom, Crowley frowned. Captain Lowell was supposed to be there if Crowley’s intelligence had been correct. And his intelligence was almost always correct. It had been a simple assignment. Tempt the Captain into giving up his next expedition to the arctic so that his gambling addiction made him lose his fortune and then he’d have to marry his mistress.

About twelve years prior, Crowley had taken to female presentation. Men’s fashion had been stifling and he liked the look of the flowy dresses. So he switched out his wardrobe and wore widow’s weeds everywhere. 

“Would you like a drink, my dear?” a voice said at his elbow and Crowley started. He’d been so focused on the room that he hadn’t even noticed when someone had approached him.

He smirked. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“We do seem to have a habit of running into each other,” Aziraphale said with a smile. 

He let Aziraphale take his arm before they took a turn about the room. “You’re looking lovely these days, Crowley.”

Crowley’s face flared at the compliment. 

“Here on business then?” Aziraphale asked, pausing on the far side of the room as the musicians started up.

“I’m not going to tell you,” Crowley retorted, cocking an eyebrow in challenge.

Aziraphale chuckled. “I’m certain I’ll see you around,” he said, taking Crowley’s hand and raising it to his lips for a brief kiss. “You really do look dashing.”

Crowley stared at his back as he skirted through the growing crowd. 

Aziraphale had always been one to adhere to the social mores of any given era. He liked the changing human customs and tried them all on like new clothes. And this century? Well, men weren’t supposed to touch women’s hands without gloves.

And Crowley hadn’t been wearing gloves.

His hand tingled where Aziraphale’s lips had been.

**1847**

Aziraphale was very drunk.

To be fair, so was Crowley.

They’d been spending more and more time together since that ball where Aziraphale had touched his hand. First it was every few months, then it was every few weeks and now it was at least weekly that they came together at each other’s houses to share drinks or stories. Crowley delighted in it.

“Listen...listen,” Crowley said around his very thick tongue. “America is going to be the next big thing. I swear it.”

“America is nothing but a blip,” Aziraphale said, bleary eyed.

“Nuh,” Crowley humphed, shaking his head. Woo dizzy. “Big thing.”

Aziraphale tipped his head back and said, “Goodness, it’s warm in here. Are you warm?”

Crowley might have been warm. He had no idea. So he just grunted.

Grumbling, Aziraphale put down his wine and reached up to tug at his cravat. Crowley swallowed. Was he—

Fumbling a little, Aziraphale found his way around the knot until he could remove the fabric from around his neck.

Crowley could see the vulnerable skin of his throat. Without the cravat he could see the dip of his collarbone. He hadn't seen Aziraphale's collarbone since...

He leaned forward without even realizing it.

“Ah, that’s better,” Aziraphale muttered, wiggling in his chair to get comfortable.

It was decidedly _ not _ better.

**1941**

Aziraphale shrugged off his coat, looking very tired. He so rarely removed his coat that it shocked Crowley. The garment seemed indelibly part of him so seeing it gone made him look vulnerable.

“What a very long, very terrible day,” Aziraphale said as he shut the bookshop door behind him. He looked up at Crowley with those gray eyes that somehow always held a smile, even when exhausted and drawn, and said, “Are you staying?”

Crowley hesitated. 

“You’re always welcome, my dear. But if you are going to stay then I’m going to lock up.”

“Right, yeah, I’ll stay.”

“Lovely,” Aziraphale said, even though he didn’t sound pleased. Or displeased. Just tired. “Would you like a drink? I’m going to make some tea.”

“Tea’s fine,” Crowley said, fiddling with the book on top of the nearest stack.

“I’ll be back in two shakes,” Aziraphale said, crossing through the bookshop and into the back room. Crowley didn’t know why he didn’t just miracle the bloody tea. But to each their own. 

It had been a while since he had been in the bookshop. The stacks of books had grown exponentially and Aziraphale had picked up a few new statues that were sat about without a hint of concern for actual interior design. It was very crowded and very homey and very Aziraphale. 

When Aziraphale returned from the back room, he had two cups of tea in hand, passing one to Crowley and then setting the other on one of the only tables with free space.

“How have you been?” Aziraphale asked absentmindedly. “It’s been what? Fifty years or so?”

“Fifty three,” Crowley said. And seventy six days.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. He turned about the room as if he was looking for something. “I had something for you. Must have been ten years at least but I’ve quite forgotten what it was.”

Crowley sipped at his tea nonchalantly. 

“Right! Yes, of course. I found this engraving and thought you’d find it a bit humorous,” Aziraphale said as he bustled between some shelves, tea forgotten.

He returned with an open book and showed Crowley a very old reproduction of an engraving that showed a woman with long curly hair and very familiar nose, dragging a minstrel to hell. 

Crowley snorted. “They’ve got my chin wrong.”

“I thought it was a passing likeness. Though I never thought you were the type to go in for that ‘dragging to hell’ nonsense.”

“I blame the human tendency for exaggeration.”

Aziraphale laughed and then looked back at the engraving before shutting the book with a sigh. “Thank you,” he said and Crowley had to tilt his neck back to look at him.

“What for?”

“For coming tonight,” Aziraphale said, turning away. “For the books. For...I don’t know.”

Crowley heart felt very full but instead of saying the things he wanted to, he shrugged. “Anytime, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled, thin-lipped and sad looking, and then looked down at his hands with a small frown.

“My hands feel positively disgusting. Ash will do that I suppose.”

Huffing at the inconvenience of it all, Aziraphale reached one hand to the cuff of his left sleeve and slipped the button through the hole, releasing the fabric so that Crowley could see the bone of his wrist.

He sucked in a breath.

With deft fingers, Aziraphale folded back the cuff once. Oh that was arm hair, light blonde and soft. And then folded it again. The pale skin of his wrist. A final fold and Crowley could see the tension release in his forearm. 

He breathed out.

Watching the muscles of Aziraphale’s forearm work as he folded up his other sleeve made heat stir in Crowley’s belly. 

Turning back to him, Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose. “Are you alright? You look rather flushed.”

“‘M fine. A bit warm,” Crowley said. And the words sounded relatively normal.

“I’m going to wash my hands. Make yourself comfortable.”

Crowley squirmed in his seat. He wouldn’t be comfortable for quite a while.

**After the Apocalypse**

They were in Crowley’s bedroom when Aziraphale took off his jacket. And then his waistcoat. And then his...shirt. Oh fuck and there were his arms which Crowley hadn’t seen more than a glimpse of in over a fifty years.

Crowley couldn't believe that this was about to happen. That there was no threat hanging over them. That Aziraphale felt the same way he did. Had for years apparently.

Aziraphale reached down to the hem of his undershirt to tug it over his head but Crowley stopped him, feeling like if he saw any more than was already on display that he might fall apart. “Please can you...leave it on for now?”

Aziraphale cocked his head and then looked down at his body. “Do you...do you not like it? I know overweight bodies aren’t very fashionable and—”

Frustrated that Aziraphale would even think that's what Crowley meant, he reached out and tugged off the undershirt himself which had maybe been a bad idea because there was Aziraphale's chest, just as furred as his arms, softer than even Crowley expected. And his belly, oh his belly. Crowley wanted to touch it.

And then he realized he could.

Reaching out to sink his fingers into Aziraphale's hips, he groaned. "No, I love it. If perfect were a thing, it'd be you." 

Which was a soppy garbled thing to say but it must please Aziraphale because his hand came up to cup his cheek before he leaned in to kiss him softly and Crowley melted into him.

That night Crowley found out that the angel's skin felt even better than it looked.


End file.
